Always
by Poison Ivory
Summary: A tragic tale of an endless love...TWO new chapters!
1. A Greeting

Author's Note: Wowee!  PI's updated!  It's a miracle!  Well, starting college is kind of a major life style change…I was busy.  And stuff.  Yeah.

Anyway, I've been planning this for a while.  And I'm basically completely redoing the format of this story (I also learned how to use HTML, how exciting is that?) so that it reads more the way I imagined it.  But there is a new chapter or two in there somewhere, and I've written more…I'm back on track.  I also have big plans for The Queen's Treasure, and I have a finished shortie and an almost-finished one, and…oh, just so much Arnold everywhere!  (It's midnight, and I'm giddy.)  Also, I'm working on a website.  * does happy dance *  Okay, enough babbling.  Here (again) is _Always_.

Disclaimer: It's a confusing story, but if you _think_ you recognize a character, chances are, it ain't mine.  Oh, and quotes beginning chapters are dutifully attributed to their owners.  You know the drill by now.  (New idea—not repeating the disclaimer every chapter.  What a concept.)

1. A Greeting 

If you are a dreamer, come in,

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,

A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…

If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire

For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!

            -Shel Silverstein, _Where the Sidewalk Ends_

"Unfortunately, little darlings, there is no such thing as a simple love story." –Tom Robbins, _Even Cowgirls Get the Blues_

            This, children, is a love story.  Before I begin, I want to remind you, dear ones, that a love story is not a fairy story.  Fairy stories end with "happily ever after."  Most love stories, on the other hand, end with "hopefully ever after."

            This is one of those stories.

            This story begins long ago, long before you or I, before the Christ, before even the great Caesars of Rome, when men in Greece still bowed down to statues of Zeus and kept vigil in Athena's temple; when virgins were pledged to Artemis and pilgrims sought the wisdom of Apollo at the Oracle at Delphi.  All that remains of that time now are crumbling relics, swirling eddies of dust…and two lost and lonely souls, seeking what was torn away from them, time and time again…

            But I see that you are confused.  Very well.  I shall begin, then, with familiar faces, ones you know and love…though what you love is not what is familiar to you, but what confuses you…

            Again, I see that look on your face.  Take no heed.  These are mysteries, and not for the uninitiated.  But you are young yet, and you may still learn.  Till then, we begin with two children, younger than yourself, still innocently ignorant of the pain that had been bestowed upon them once, and many times…and perhaps again…

            But enough.  Time for the tale.


	2. Dream Interlude: The Accident

2. Dream Interlude (The Accident)

""Do you really think there is only one perfect mate? Well, then, how can you be   
certain to find them? If you do find them are they really the one for you or   
do you think they are? And what happens if the person you're supposed to be   
with never appears, or she does, but you're too distracted to notice?...Then   
let's say God puts two people on earth and they're lucky enough to find one   
another but one of them gets hit by lightning. Then what? Is that it?  Or  
perchance you meet someone new and get married all over again, is that the   
lady you're supposed to be with? Or was it the first? And if so, if the two   
of them were standing side by side, were they both the one for you and you   
just happened to see the first one first—or is the second one supposed to be   
the first, or—" –_Ever After_

            "Watch it, Football Head!" snapped Helga G. Pataki, shoving the small boy with the strangely-shaped head aside as she stormed down the aisle of the bus.  He could have fired back an insult, maybe something to do with the fuzzy black caterpillar above her eyes.  He could have shoved her, as many nine-year-old boys would be quick to do, if the fear of cooties didn't scare him off.  He was a black belt—it would have been simple for him to have retaliated, or at least defended himself from the shove without going sprawling across the aisle in the least dignified manner possible.

            But he refrained, as always, from any sort of comment that might result in hurt feelings.  He didn't shove her back, though he was far too enlightened, at the tender age of nine, to believe in such things as cooties.  And he didn't even have to remind himself that his martial arts skills were not to be used against classmates, especially female ones.  He didn't need a reason to do nothing but stand, brush himself off, and say "Sorry, Helga."

            That was just Arnold.

            Ignoring him, Helga pushed past him and locked herself in the tiny metal cubicle that was the bus bathroom.  Shrugging, Arnold walked back to his seat next to his best friend Gerald and sat down.

            "Man, you let Helga walk all over you, don't you?" Gerald said, shaking his head.  "Why don't you ever stand up to her?"

            Arnold sighed.  "I don't know, Gerald.  What would be the point?  She'd never change.  She's always been stubborn…always…"

            "Always?" Gerald interrupted, looking askance at Arnold's faraway look.  "You've only known each other six years.  In the cosmic scheme of things, that's not exactly forever."

            "I guess it just feels like forever.  Six years is a lot of time when you're nine, and we've all known each other for most of our sentient lives," Arnold agreed.

            "Sentient?  Man, you read too much!" Gerald complained.

            "Look!  A cow!" Harold yelled out, pointing at a dark shape on the other side of the grubby window.

            "Harold, that's a station wagon," Rhonda replied, her voice dripping with contempt.

            "Cow!"

            "Station wagon!"

            As the class became embroiled in the debate, peering at the shadowy figure through the gathering darkness, Arnold stared straight ahead of him, lost in his thoughts.  He didn't like lying to Gerald, but there were some things his best friend couldn't understand…things Arnold himself didn't really understand.  Like how he felt like he had known Helga for more than six years…more than nine, even.  Like how he woke up sometimes and knew he had had an intense dream, but couldn't remember what it was about…except that Helga was in it.  Only she wasn't Helga, she was someone else.  And he was someone else too…

            He couldn't explain why he had these weird dreams about Helga G. Pataki of all people.  It wasn't like she occupied his thoughts that much in his waking hours.  Well, not too much, anyway.  Sure, he was concerned about her a lot of the time, and he was always trying to figure her out, but he didn't think about her as much as he thought about…well, Lila, for example.

He glanced back at the steel door to the bathroom, as the cow vs. station wagon debacle raged overhead.  Helga was a mystery, all right.  She always seemed like she was jealously guarding some kind of secret…but what it was, he'd probably never even come close to guessing.

Inside the bathroom, the girl in question was gazing lovingly at another Arnold, albeit a two-dimensional one.

"Oh, Arnold," Helga sighed, as the violins began to play.  "Again Fate, that fickle weaver of webs, spins our worlds into a violent collision.  And again, I brush you aside, callously berating you and hiding from you my deepest and most innermost secret.  Oh, Arnold, my darling, if only I had the courage to speak of my love for you!  Your stalwart manner.  Your impeccable honesty.  Your yummy green eyes, calling to me like verdant forest pools, singing the song of the rapture of the deep!  Oh, to drown myself in your eyes, to—"

Helga paused, listening.  At first she thought she had imagined the sound, but there it was again—a sound like heavy, asthmatic breathing.  She rolled her eyes and scowled.  Unlocking the door, she swung it outwards sharply, without warning, waiting for the satisfying thud and snap of glasses breaking.

Instead, the door met no resistance, and she overbalanced and stumbled out into the aisle.  Regaining her posture quickly, making sure nobody saw her almost fall—no one did; they were too caught up in some stupid conversation about a cow—she made her way back down the aisle.

Her best friend Phoebe was engrossed in a massive book when Helga plunked down next to her.  "Hello, Helga.  Was your sojourn to the lavatory enjoyable?" Phoebe inquired politely.

Helga smiled faintly.  "Yeah, Pheebs.  It was a barrel of laughs."  She glanced around the bus.  "Where's Brainy, d'you know?"

Phoebe looked grave.  "Oh, yes, I believe he's home with the chicken pox.  I do hope that he was quarantined before it spread to the rest of our class…some members of our community sometimes overreact to certain diseases named after animals."

Helga flushed.  "Let's forget about that, okay, Phoebe?"

"Forgetting," Phoebe sang.  "Incidentally, you don't turn into a chicken and 'expire' during the chicken pox, in case you were nervous."

"Pheebs!"

"Sorry, couldn't resist."  Phoebe drifted back over to their previous topic of conversation.  "It's a shame that Brainy couldn't join us on our trip to the ski lodge.  It promises to be a memorable expedition, don't you agree?"

Helga shrugged.  "Dunno.  All I know is, I'm staying by the fire and drinking hot cocoa the entire time.  No winter sports for me.  I'm already freezing as it is."  Indeed, she was bundled up in a winter coat, a hunting cap, and a holey cashmere scarf that had been knitted as a Christmas present for her by her big sister Olga—which was perhaps why the scarf had been so badly mistreated.  "It better not get any colder than this," she growled, shifting deeper into her coat.

"I don't think it will," Phoebe chirped.  "We're almost there, Mr. Simmons says, and night has fallen, so the temperature should not drop more than ten degrees at the most during our entire stay."

"Good to know.  It's plenty cold already," Helga complained, glaring at the drifts of pure white snow over the fields and the patches of ice in the road, patches that Joe, the burly bus driver, had been swerving to avoid for the past couple of hours—which was why she had crashed into Arnold, or at least the excuse for it.

Tonight was a night made for cuddling, she decided.  Crystal clear and ice cold, perfect to gaze at through a window, huddled by the fire with someone you adored.  Instinctively, her hand brushed her dress, at the spot where she always kept her locket.

It wasn't there.  Her locket was missing.  Helga's blood ran cold as she remembered what she'd had to endure the last time she'd lost the locket.  Where could she have left it?  She'd last looked at it in the bathroom.  Maybe she had dropped it.

"'Scuse me, Pheebs," she muttered quickly, getting up and making a beeline for the bathroom.  She ran in and closed the door behind her, her eyes scanning the floor until she saw a glint of gold.

"A ha!" she exclaimed, bending down to retrieve the prized possession.  She gazed lovingly at Arnold's likeness before slipping the locket back into her dress pocket.

Joe, the bus driver, didn't see the black ice on the road until it was too late.  Suddenly, he felt his front, then back wheels spinning out of control.  He turned the wheel frantically, forgetting to go in the direction of the spin and instead fighting it, as the argument from the students changed to a chorus of screams.

The bus fishtailed across the thankfully empty mountain road, coming precariously close to the steep brink before skidding back across.  In the back, where, the sliding was the worst, Helga was thrown to her knees, her head cracking painfully against the toilet.  She put a hand to her head, bringing it away bloody.  Alarmed, she tried to get to the door, but another swing knocked her backwards.

A sporty red sedan speeding down the road out of nowhere was unable to avoid the wildly flailing bus.  The driver tried frantically to avoid the bus, but struck the back wheels.

It was the final nail in the coffin.  The bus tipped over on its side.  The children screamed again as gravity was suddenly seemingly tilted.  Their seatbelts were barely a restraint, as most of the kids were too skinny or had fastened the belts too loosely, and all tumbled into a painful pile at the bottom of the bus.

Mr. Simmons seemed very near panic, so Arnold, as usual, took the lead.  He extricated himself from the pile of crying, petrified fourth-graders and climbed up on one of the seats to reach the emergency exit on the other side of the bus.  Pushing as hard as he could, he opened it.  Freezing cold air whipped in as the door slid out of the way.

"Come on, Mr. Simmons," he urged his teacher.  "We have to get the other kids out."

Mr. Simmons seemed to come back to himself.  "Of course.  Thank you, Arnold," he said.  The rest of the class was just now attempting to stand up, and they were quickly organized in a procession out of the bus.  Rhonda, the first one out, gave her cell phone to the more level-headed Phoebe, who called 911.

The last of the kids were just making their way out when Rhonda stuck her head back into the bus.  "Um…Mr. Simmons?  Is the engine supposed to be smoking like that?" she asked.

Mr. Simmons glanced out the front window to see the view ahead obscured by a cloud of thick gray smoke.  "Oh dear lord," he said, alarmed.  "The engine is on fire.  It's combustible!  We've got to get out of here!"  Suddenly he noticed Joe, slumped over the wheel, unconscious.  He walked over and started to tug at Joe's comatose body, pulling him towards the exit.  Arnold ran to help him as Curly, the last of the students, disappeared through the emergency exit.

"No, Arnold.  You go outside and stand safely away with the others," Mr. Simmons commanded.

"You need help," was Arnold's only reply.  He reached out and unbuckled Joe's seatbelt, helping to drag the large man as best as a nine-year-old can, while his classmates watched anxiously from across the road, gathered there by the driver of the sedan, a middle-aged woman.

Between the two of them, Mr. Simmons and Arnold somehow managed to heave Joe's body through the emergency exit and down across the road.  The woman administered to him while Mr. Simmons did an emergency role call.

"Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen…fifteen?  Only fifteen?  We're missing somebody!"

"Helga!" Phoebe cried suddenly.  "Where's Helga?  She was in the bathroom…"  They all stared at the bus as Phoebe lunged toward it, anxious to help her friend.  Gerald grabbed her arm.

"It's too dangerous!" he told her, pulling her back.

"She's my best friend!" she replied, still straining against him.  There was no need, though, for someone was already heading towards the bus.

Arnold.

Heedless of the danger, not even really knowing why he was so determined to get Helga out, Arnold raced back towards the smoking bus.  The smoke had spread, and as he climbed in through the emergency exit, he plunged into a thick blanket of smoke.  He could barely see, and he had to filter the air through his scarf to get any kind of oxygen at all.  Even then, he was coughing by the time he got to the bathroom, his eyes watering.

"Helga?" he called through the bathroom door, which was now above his head.

"Arnold!" she cried, and he had never been more relieved to hear any person's voice in his life, let alone Helga's.

"There's been an accident.  The bus is on fire.  We've got to get out."

"Gee, you think, Sherlock?" Helga replied, but there was no bite to it.  "The door's stuck."

Arnold reached up and tried it himself.  "Is it locked?" he asked.

"No, it's just stuck," she replied, sounding panicky.  "Is the bus going to explode?"

"Hold on," he said, unwilling to answer that question.  It probably was, though…Looking towards the engine, he could see flames here and there.  "You push, and I'll pull, on the count of three.  Maybe that'll jimmy the door open."

"Okay," she said anxiously.

"Okay, get ready.  One…two…three!"  Arnold tugged with all his might, as he heard Helga slam her weight against the door.  It jerked open suddenly, sending Helga tumbling into Arnold's arms.

Arnold was thrown onto his back, Helga on top of him, one of her soft golden ponytails in his face.  He had never noticed before how nice her hair smelled, and it struck him that that was an odd thought to be having at the moment.

"Come on!" Helga said, jumping up and grabbing his hand.  She ran towards the front of the bus, pausing in a brief moment of indecision as she realized she didn't know where to go.

"This way!" Arnold said, pulling her towards the emergency exit.  A thunderously loud boom made him look towards the front of the bus.

Everything slowed down.  Arnold could very clearly see the orange-and-black, car-sized ball of fire rushing down the aisle towards him and Helga.  There seemed to be an overwhelming silence hanging everywhere, quiet enough that he could hear Helga's breathing.  She was whispering something, something he couldn't quite make out.

I love you?

Arnold's fingers tightened around Helga's.

The bus exploded.


	3. Dream Interlude: And What Happened After...

3. Dream Interlude (And What Happened After It)

"…the Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love."  -Margaret Atwood

            Arnold felt himself being thrown backwards by the force of the blast.  Heat, more intense than anything he had ever felt, enveloped him.  He felt searing pain all over his body, mostly his face.

            He also felt Helga's fingers tight in his, heard her scream being ripped from her lips as they hurtled backwards through the air.

            They hit something hard, rolled, dropped from something.  They were being tossed in a sea of pain.  Arnold couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything…all there was was feeling.  Pain.  Heat and blows from all sides.

            They landed in something cool.  Snow.  Arnold's pain-clouded mind worked that one little detail out.  Cold softness was snow.

            He could still feel Helga's fingers, still hear her ragged, uneven breathing.  He crawled to her as best he could, touched her face with his raw fingers.  Her image swam into focus before him, her hair singed but her face somehow lovely, though contorted in pain.  Her lips mouthed his name before blackness overcame him again.

            Arnold let his head fall on Helga's chest.  The snow was a soft, cool blanket.  Was this death?  If so, it was far more comfortable than he would have imagined.  He felt himself sinking, sinking deeper and deeper into the snow and Helga and unconsciousness.  As he fell through the layers of the conscious world, he drifted into something…a memory?  A dream?  He was too far gone to even wonder.  The pain faded away as he let himself go…


	4. A Why and Because

4. A Poem For Lovers

"I have always known, I think, that I lived before—it seems to me that life is too great a thing to live it only once and then be snuffed out like a lamp when the wind blows.  And why, when I first looked upon your face, did I feel that I had known you before the world was made?  These things are mysteries, and I think it may be that you know more of them that I…But I do not fear the dragons…"  -Marion Zimmer Bradley, _The Mists of Avalon_

Desperate measures in desperate times

The medicine man recited

Desperate measures in desperate times

Two star-crossed lovers divided

Back in the days when Apollo shone

His light across the land

And the men of the earth lived and breathed

By the mercy of Zeus' hand

There was a town, neither Athens nor Thebes

Nor Sparta or any of fame

But a small verdant hovel that history has lost

Even I misremember its name

Now this town had fallen on dreadful times

And the shadow of drought had fallen

And the people were hungry and scared for their lives

And a conman heard their calling

"I'm a medicine man," he proclaimed to the town

"And I know how to keep you from famine

Find a girl, a young girl, not just any old thing

Not a child or starving young gamin

But a beautiful virgin in the bright flush of youth

The most innocent one in the town

You must bathe her and feed her and pamper her needs

And then you must strike her down

A sacrifice, that's what the gods do demand!"

He exhorted the town to obey

"You must send them a virgin by the next equinox

And without any further delay"

(That he received gold, wine, and slaves for his words

And for slaying the innocent one

I am sure was coincidence, never the motive

Could such terrible things have been done?)

The virgin was chosen, a maiden named Helen

The most beautiful one within miles

With hair like the sun and eyes like the sea

Who could light up the sky with her smiles

She agreed in a minute, one could not say gladly

But to save her dear beloved home

She would do most anything, that's what she said

As they dressed her in lily-white gown

Then they left her to pray in a chapel with incense

So thick she was soon in a trance

And it's safe to declare that as she knelt there

She never once thought of romance

And then suddenly he came like a god from on high

Destroying the calm tranquil scene

With cornflower hair like the wheat fields in summer

And eyes that were deep emerald green

When he saw Helen there I can honestly swear

That this warrior very near cried

"Helen, love!" he beseeched as he knelt at her feet

"Throw this vow away and be my bride!

Come with me, away, to where we can be safe

And peaceful as dryads and doves

For I cannot sit still and just watch you be killed

For you see, it is you that I love"

Then Helen broke free from the smoke and the drugs

And her sapphire eyes, they did burn

And flow over with tears, for the boy she adored

All the love she bore, he did return

They stole but a kiss, then a second, and third

And giggled like children at play

Forgetting, for now, the threat hanging over

Their heads before sunset that day

Then the medicine man, if he can be called that

Came to check on his young sacrifice

And what did he see but a boy from the streets

Kissing her not once but thrice!

He flew into a rage and he called in the guards

And they dragged the poor young man away

Striking him with their fists for each stolen kiss

For love his town he'd dared to betray

And as for the girl, well, the man was incensed

And sped up the time of the rites

Her death would be now, though she struggled and fought

And got in some sharp lucky bites

Though I speak with a smile, I must pause for a while

For this tale is yet hard to tell

For a town and its fool, without further ado

Slaughtered she the young lad loved so well

As her body rose higher on the funeral pyre

The young man he dropped to the ground

For never again would his heart beat again

For he, too, had been killed by the town

Not with weapons or blows, no, heaven knows

But a heart that had broken with grief

For a love he had known, now the white of a bone

And flakes of ash that blew like leaves

And the gods up above watching this tragic love

Some incensed and some moved to tears

And Zeus in his ire blasted it with fire

And that's how the town disappeared

"These lovers," he declared, "though they cannot be spared

For nothing can restore them to life

Will rise once again until the great day when

Their true other half they may find

Though it take years and years and an ocean of tears

I swear by the skies and the sea

That until side by side, heaven shall be denied

To these lovers true—so mote it be."


	5. Dream Interlude: Bittersweet Irony

5. Dream Interlude (Bittersweet Irony) 

You can laugh, only if you laugh with me

You can cry, only if you cry for me

Don't forget that you're condemned to me…

            -"The Rules," Shakira

            Whirring blue and red lights flashed against the white blanket of the snow.  Bundled-up paramedics wrapped up shivering, crying fourth-graders in blankets, bandaging small cuts and sprains.  Children were hustled into squad cars, ambulances, any available vehicle to take them to the nearest hospital.

            Phoebe and Gerald watched the plight of their best friends from the other side of the yellow police tape, despite the emergency personnel's efforts to get them into a car and out of the accident scene.  Paramedics hovered around Arnold and Helga's unconscious bodies, easing them onto stretches and carrying them into the ambulance, where they were hooked up to oxygen, IV's, heart monitors.  Then the paramedics began the laborious process of cleaning their burns.

            The heavy white doors of the ambulance slammed shut, and with some gentle coaxing from Mr. Simmons, Gerald and Phoebe were convinced to get into a squad car and follow the ambulance to the hospital.  Gerald had shed his normally cool façade and was weeping openly; from shock and reaction, from fear, from worry for his best friend and a girl he had not known how much he cared about until she hung very near death.  Phoebe, surprisingly, was stoic, or perhaps just numb, staring at the icy landscape through her window, a landscape that was perhaps not colder than her eyes.

            In the ambulance, there was a problem.  The two children's hands, clasped tightly as they were, had been burned together.  The blistering skin had sealed their hands to each other, in a kind of deathly embrace.  The paramedics would have to cut their hands apart to prevent them from a sort of artificial Siamese twinship, if they lived—which was no great likelihood, at the moment.  Both would probably need blood transplants, if they made it through the ride to the hospital.

            Down the frozen road a pack of ambulances and squad cars sped, racing against the clock, fate, and the ever-dwindling drumbeats of two hearts, beating in erratic rhythm in the ribcages of two little blond children, over whom the Grim Reaper's scythe hung at a precarious and persistent angle.


	6. Dream Interlude: Vignette

6. Dream Interlude (Vignette)

"What if you slept?  And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed?  And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower?  And what if, when you awoke, you held that flower in your hand?  Ah, what then?"  -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

            The ambulance sped down the road, a team of paramedics working frantically to keep life in the two fragile forms on the stretchers.  Helga's mind flitted like a butterfly trapped in a jar, swirling through memories; her sister's trilling giggle, the smell of alcohol on her mother's breath, the coldness in her father's eyes, the taste of Arnold's lips that summer at the beach.  It settled on one memory, one faint image, that grew and grew, plunging her into something that was not quite a dream and not quite death—but a little of both.


	7. The Hostler and the Liar Meet

~Book I: The Hostler and the Liar~ 

7. The Hostler and the Liar Meet

"And I can't stand him!"

            -_Singin' in the Rain_

            Helena of Patach lived in a small, rocky kingdom by the shores of the Eastern Sea.  The kingdom, called Hillith by its inhabitants, is not set down in any history book, and perhaps never even existed.  But what is existing?  People who don't exist still manage to vote regularly in many municipal elections, especially in Miami.

            Helena of Patach was not concerned with existing, municipalities, or Miami, which she had never, and would never, hear of.  Helena of Patach was concerned with a stable hand named Art.  She did not like Art, for several valid reasons.  He was cheeky.  He smelled always of horses.  His eyes were greener than they had a right to be, and he was from Littell, the country to the south of Hillith, so his accent was atrocious.  And _he knew her secret_—was one of the few who did.

            She had been eleven when they'd met; he, fourteen.  At eleven, Helena was gangly, awkward, and ugly, with heavy dark eyebrows and thin, watery blond hair.  Visitors to Patach often remarked behind their hands about the difference between Helena and her older sister, Olivia, who was delicate and beautiful, with shining golden hair and gentle features.  Their temperaments were vastly different, too.  Olivia was the perfect lady; modest, humble, quiet, and kind.  Helena was loud, rude, clumsy, and often fiercely angry about something or other, not to mention the bane of her father's life.

            Lord Robert of Patach bore no great love for his youngest daughter.  He had been able to look past his first child Olivia's failure to be born male and so an heir, and lavished much love upon her pretty golden head.  But he had never forgiven Helena for costing her mother her life in childbirth.  And on top of that, having the nerve to be born a girl!  It didn't bear thinking about.

            And so though she fiercely denied it, Helena was lonely—exceedingly so.  There was no one near her age in the castle, and she was forbidden to play with common children, the wiry dirty younglings of Patach's village and farmsteads.  Olivia, frustrating as her perfection might be, was her only companion—but Olivia had just been married off to the handsome but brainless young lord of Campton, and Helena was deprived of even her maddening older sister's company.

            She wandered about the castle aimlessly.  There was nothing to do.  She could go sit with the ladies of the castle and practice her needlepoint, but the idea was about as appealing as rolling in the manure used to fertilize the fields.  She could bother the cooks, but the last time she had spent too long in the kitchens it had been reported to her father, and Lord Robert did not look kindly on his daughter lazing about the kitchens like a pet dog.

            Then she remembered Champion, the pretty little moor pony she had received for her eleventh birthday the week before.  It was a beautiful little creature, all big brown loving eyes and shaggy russet hair.  She could go for a ride.  No one would noticed she was gone, and she loved to ride all alone, the wind in her hair and her nostrils, eyes shut against the streaming sunlight, pretending just for a heartbeat that she was free.

            One problem.  She mustn't be spotted by anyone who knew her.  She was not, technically, allowed to ride by herself (although that had never stopped her before) and the trouble she could get into if she was seen was enough to give even a reckless eleven-year-old girl pause.

            But she had circumvented this hazard before.  Slipping up into her chambers, delighting in the slightly guilty, naughty feeling of doing something she oughtn't, she set about her escape.  Discarding her pretty, uncomfortable silk gown in an eye-smarting shade of pink, she dug under her straw tick mattress until she found her boys' clothes—patched breeches, a shirt, boots, and a cap big enough to stuff her hair into and shadow her face if anyone looked too closely.

            It was easy enough to sneak out of the castle—she'd done it before.  There was a store room on the second floor that no one ever went into.  If she could get there without being seen, she could very easily make it out the window onto a tree that grew close to the castle walls, and she wouldn't have to pass any guards.  It was foolproof.

            She slunk around the halls until she reached the store room.  Thanking her lucky stars that Patach didn't have a moat, she clambered out the window and onto a nearby branch.  Sliding across the branch, she shimmied down the trunk until she could drop safely to the ground, and wondered, not for the first time, why something as fun as climbing trees couldn't somehow be "proper."

            Reveling in her freedom, she ran across the fields to the stables, not even caring if someone saw her.  No one cared about one lone peasant boy.  She reached the low, musky buildings and headed for Champion's stall, intending to saddle the little pony as quickly as possible and set out for the high meadow at a gallop.  But as her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness in the stable, she saw a figure moving across the scuffed floor.

            She squinted at him.  She knew all the stable hands, and this boy was a complete stranger to her.  None of the hands had golden hair like that, or were that young.  This boy didn't belong, and _he was heading into Champion's stall!_

            No stranger touched _her_ pony without permission.  Forgetting who she was supposed to be, she marched up to the stranger and planted herself in front of him, hands on hips.

            "Who are you?" she demanded in her most lordly voice.

            He straightened up slowly and looked at her, a warm smile spreading across his face.  Helena's eyes widened.  His hair was unkempt, finger-combed back from his face, with a few strands hanging in his eyes.  It was mostly golden, with streaks bleached nearly white.  His eyes were the color of summer leaves; a few freckles dotted his perfect nose.  He was tall, very tall, though he didn't look more than a few years older than her, and broad in the shoulder, though not too filled out otherwise.  His smile was warmer than the sun.

            Helena trembled internally.  Her scowl deepened.  She didn't know what this new feeling was, and she didn't like it.

            "My name is Art," he said, his voice halfway between a boy's and a man's.  "I'm the new stable hand."  He had a broad Littellan accent, but no commoner's twang.  Helena supposed they didn't have a commoner accent in Littell.

            She didn't move.  "No one informed me of a new stable hand's coming," she challenged.

            His smile tilted, swerved, became almost a smirk—not quite enough to be considered disrespectful.  "And I'm sure they tell you of all the goings-on here, milady."

            She opened her mouth to fire back a sharp retort.  "I don't care what you—"  Her mouth stayed open, though words suddenly stopped coming out.  He knew she was a girl.  And he had called her "milady," which meant that he realized…

            "Do you know who I am?" she asked, trying to sound like she was still in charge of the situation.

            He ducked his head.  "Little Lady Helena, Lord Robert's younger daughter," he replied simply.  "Although I am surprised that my lord lets his daughter run about the stables dressed like a common village boy…"  His grin revealed that he suspected Lord Robert knew nothing about Helena's current location or attire.

            Helena had lost her scowl, but she regained it quickly.  Her little hands curled into fists.  "And if you know what's good for you, you won't say anything to him about it…or anyone else."

            Now both of his eyebrows shot up.  "Are you saying you'll fight me?"

            "You don't think I can?"

            He shook his head.  "You're ten.  I doubt it."

            Helena tossed her head like a high-strung pony.  "Number one, I'm eleven.  Number two—"

Without warning, she stepped in and delivered a one-two punch to the older boy's stomach.  Art gasped for air as he doubled over, the wind knocked out of him.  Quickly, Helena shoved him onto his back and stood over him triumphantly, fists cocked.

Art wheezed several times, trying to inflate his lungs again.  When he was properly recovered, he started to laugh.  Hard.  So hard that tears squeezed from his eyes.  Helena began to wonder if he was mentally subnormal.

As his laughing slowed, Art pushed himself up into a sitting position.  Helena took a step back.

Art looked at her softly, a strange look for someone who'd just been decked by a girl three years younger than him, and before she could stop herself, Helena found herself wondering how his eyelashes got so long and full.  He spoke, and there was a friendliness in his voice that Helena had never heard, in her father or sister, in the servants, _anyone_.

"Oh, little lady," he said with a twinkle in his green eyes.  "I think we're going to be great friends."

And Helena, baffled, could think of nothing to do but run from the stable as fast as her skinny legs could take her.


	8. The Hostler and the Liar Get Better Acqu...

8. The Hostler and the Liar Get Better Acquainted

"You see?  That is just like you, Harry.  You say these things, and you make it impossible for me to hate you.  And I hate you, Harry.  I really hate you."

-_When Harry Met Sally_

Art's prediction didn't turn out to be entirely right.  In fact, he was completely and utterly wrong.  They did not turn out to be great friends.  One couldn't even really consider them friends in the most general sense.

Enemies might have been more appropriate, but that wasn't exactly the right word either.  True, Helena spurned Art's friendly overtures from that day on.  She scowled every time she saw him, and referred to him as nothing but "you" and "boy" and "farm hand."  If he ever got a little _too_ friendly, or got anywhere near to being in her way, she'd simply slug him in the stomach and go about her business.  And yet it was a one-sided war, and those do not make enemies.  Perhaps it was simply Helena warring against herself.

It comforted her a little to know that at least their stations in life separated them somewhat.  He always seemed to be there when she went to the stables to visit Champion, and if he wasn't working right at the moment he would hover by her elbow, making annoyingly pleasant small talk or flat-out teasing her.  But at home, in the castle, she knew he could never encroach.  The servants had their own quarters in the Pataki castle, in the lower levels, and took their meals separately.  Only house servants ever ventured into the upper floors, where Helena spent most of her time.  So she was safe.

Which made it even more of an unpleasant shock when she entered the dining room one evening and Art was already there, unruly golden hair combed back neatly, his face scrubbed and rosy, talking to her father.

"You're late, girl.  Sit down," Lord Robert said brusquely.

She didn't move, frozen as she was in the doorway.  "What is _he _doing here?" she asked, pointing an irreverent finger at Art.

"What do you think he's doing?" her father replied.  "He's eating dinner."

"Why _here_?" she asked, still in the doorway.

"I wanted to get to know him."  Robert's voice held a warning note.  "It's my decision.  I'm the head of this household.  Now sit _down_."

This was common practice with Lord Robert, who was by nature suspicious and unscrupulous.  He always ate dinner at least once with a new servant while grilling him to make sure that the servant was loyal.  She shouldn't have been surprised to see Art there.  Still, Helena held firm.  She folded her arms across her chest.  "He doesn't belong here.  I won't eat with a _servant_.  Let him take his meal with the horses, where he belongs!"

A faint red burned in Art's cheeks, barely visible against the tan, but he held his head erect, nobly.  Lord Robert purpled at the insubordination.

"You insolent wench, how dare you speak like that to my guest?" he thundered, half-rising.  "You shame the family of Patach.  You will apologize this instant to the boy and take your dinner in silence, or I'll take you into the woodshed myself and flay the hide off of you."

Helena knew she had gone too far.  Lord Robert cared nothing about Art's personal pride—he'd revealed that by calling him "the boy"—but he insisted that his family follow the intricate dance of manners nobility was expected to uphold.  She'd been whipped by her father before for insolence, and didn't relish repeating the experience.  Sulkily, she bowed her head.

"I apologize," she said softly.  "Please forgive me."

Art's cheeks still burned, faintly, but he looked her straight in the eye, and smiled.  "Forgiven, little lady.  Please, join us."

It was Helga's turn to burn with shame.  Why did she feel that Art made a better noble than she did?

Thus humbled, she went to her place and sat, staring at the table as the servants ladled food onto her plate.  Her appetite was gone.  Soberly, she picked at her food, listening to her father query Art.

"So you're from Littell?" Lord Robert asked.  Helena suppressed a roll of her eyes.  Anyone with ears could tell that Art was Littellan—his accent was atrocious.

"Yes, sir," Art replied.

"Why did you come north?"  Helena could practically read her father's mind.  He was trying to find out if Art was an escaped criminal, a runaway servant, or something along those lines.  She listened, interested against her will.

"My father had a small business in the capital city," Art told them.  "He broke difficult horses for merchants, or horses that required expert handling.  He was training me, but when he died…"  He paused.  "When he died, I wasn't old enough to take over the business myself."

"How'd he die?" Robert asked through a mouthful of food, clearly uninterested.

"He was thrown from a spice merchant's stallion.  He broke his collarbone."  Helena was surprised to hear no sorrow in his voice at this, though his voice had been trembling before.

"Why didn't you find a place to work in Littell?" her father asked gruffly, ignoring Art's loss.

"I wasn't eager to stay in Littell under the new king.  There'll be war under him soon enough."  Was there a hint of bitterness in his voice?

Lord Robert started to ask another question, but he was interrupted by another guest, a baron of somewhere—Helena couldn't remember his name.  "Caenor, isn't it?  The old king's brother?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened to the old king?" asked the captain of horse.

"King Miles?  Died, not too long ago."  The Baron of Wherever was obviously quite pleased to show off his knowledge.

Lord Robert joined the conversation.  "What happened?"

"Took sick, they say.  Although some suspect foul play.  That Caenor has made trouble in the past."

"Didn't Miles have a proper heir?" the captain wanted to know.

"Don't know.  If he did, the boy must have been too young.  Miles was still a young man when he died."

"Will this Caenor make war up here?"

"It's too early to say, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

Talk continued, but Helena tuned it out.  She was a girl.  War affected her very little, and she cared nothing for the doings of royal families in other lands—or her own, for that matter.

As she ate, mechanically, she glanced up through lowered lashes at Art, sitting directly across from her.  He was silent and sober, an unfamiliar expression on his usually cheerful face.  She supposed the talk of his father must have upset him.  She wondered what it was like to love one's father.

She couldn't read his eyes, which were lowered, but she watched his lips move as he ate.  She'd hoped that he would spill something, or make some huge social gaffe, but his manners were impeccable—better than hers, as a matter of fact.  She scowled.  Score another point for the stable boy.

Suddenly, he looked up and met her eyes.  Caught by surprise, his emotions were displayed for all to see—pain, anger, grief.  A moment of vulnerability than struck a resounding chord in Helena's soul.  He was lonely, too…  She trembled, and hated herself for trembling.

Quickly, the masks dropped over their faces.  She scowled again; he winked, and went about his dinner more brightly.  She kicked him under the table.

He looked up, surprised.  Then, without warning, a foot shot out and kicked her back.  She bit back a yelp.

Looking up at Art's face, she glared at him, and kicked him again, harder.  He raised an eyebrow, and his foot made contact with her shinbone again.

And so it went, for the rest of the evening.  While the men argued and swore over beef and ale, two children brutalized each other's shins, each one desperately trying to hold on to a mask that was their only defense against the real world.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

Helena slunk into the stable, hoping to saddle Champion and get away before Art saw her and started pestering her.  It was over two months since his arrival, and yet he still managed to pop up like a weed in spring every time she made her way down to the stables.  This time, however, he was nowhere to be found.

She let out an enormous sigh of relief, trying to hide the tiny, niggling traces of disappointment in her stomach, and saddled Champion.  She led him out of the stables, and mounted, heading for the upper meadows.

They started out at a walk, but as the hard, beaten road gave way to lush meadow Helena let Champion move into a canter, and then on full-out gallop, giving him free rein over where they went.  He thundered past the deep green meadows where the cattle grazed, his gait flawless, his speed unflagging.  Lord Robert might not love his youngest daughter, but he knew horses, and pride prevented him from purchasing anything but the best, even for an unruly and temperamental girl-child.  And Champion was the best.

Helena leaned over her pony's neck, tears streaming from her eyes from the wind.  Riding Champion at a full gallop was like being on a very tiny boat in a very stormy sea, but she loved it.  She whispered words of encouragement in the pony's long, hairy ear, which flicked back respectfully to hear what she had to say.  Her mouth was open; she let out a wild war cry, tasting the wind as Champion fought to outrun it.

Before long, though, she reined Champion in, back to a canter, and then a walk, letting him cool down.  Helena of Patach loved no man or woman alive, but she was ever good to her horse, and she didn't want him to overexert himself.  Horses could go fast, but galloping at top speed for an extended period of time was beyond them.

As they walked, they crested the top of the high meadows and came upon the fallow pastures, where the grass was being allowed to grow so that the land would be fertile come next year.  A figure was standing by the low wooden fence, doing something with a stick.  As they drew closer, Helena could see that it was Art.

She fought the temptation to turn and gallop away.  He would know that she had run.  Instead, she sat very tall as Champion walked slowly by him.

"Is that you, little lady?" he asked in that warm voice as she tried not to look at him.  "I _thought_ I heard someone yelling like a savage."

She stopped Champion and looked at him, trying to keep a flush from her cheeks.  "What _are _you doing?" she asked, looking askance at the stick, and was gratified to see his ears turn red.

"Oh, this?  I…uh…well…"  He sighed.  "I'm practicing the sword."

"That's not a sword."

"I know that.  But I don't _have_ a sword, do I?  So this will have to do."

Helena raised an eyebrow.  "Why do you bother, anyway?  _Commoners_ aren't permitted swords."

He didn't flush this time, merely held his head higher.  "I know.  Well…I suppose it helps me with the staff, and the axe, or the spear, or pike, or whatever I'm permitted to use.  And it's fun."

"So who cares if you can fight?" Helena wanted to know.

He shrugged.  "Hillith will, when the war breaks out."

"What war?" Helena scoffed.

But Art was serious.  "Oh, there'll be one, sooner or later.  With Caenor on the throne…  And if there's war, men who already know how to fight will be put in command."

"And that's your big plan?" Helena sneered.

He shrugged.  "Maybe."  His eyes were unreadable as he returned to move the stick around in vague patterns that looked nothing like fighting.

Uncomfortable, Helena changed the subject.  "Where did you learn this stuff, anyway?" she asked.

Art was concentrating on the "sword."  "Sometimes nobles came to us to work on their horses.  If they had time, they'd show me a few things—them or their sons.  I'm a fast learner."  He was silent for a moment, going through some more patterns.  Then his eyes slid sideways towards her.  "Do you want me to teach you?"

Helena was taken aback.  "What?  Me?"

"No, Champion," he replied with gentle sarcasm.  "Why not?"

"I…I'm a girl!" Helena said, still surprised by his offer.

He raised an eyebrow.  "I had noticed."

She ignored the jibe.  "What would I need sword-fighting for, anyway?" she demanded.

He shrugged.  "Well, if you don't want to learn…"

"I didn't say that."  The words sprung unbidden to her lips.

Art smiled.  "Well, tie the reins to that post, and I'll show you."  He gestured to a pile of sticks by his feet.  "I brought a few, so I could practice with different weights."

Helena found herself dismounting, leading Champion to the fence, tying him so that he could graze, and picking up a stick.  She came to stand next to Art, holding the stick awkwardly.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," she muttered.  "Like this?"

"No, no…like this."  Dropping his own stick, Art adjusted her grip.  Helena flinched at his touch and looked up at him.

"I hope you know that this doesn't mean I'm going to be nice to you or anything," she said bluntly.  "You're still just a stable hand."

He laughed.  "And you're still my little lady, and I wouldn't expect anything less."  He rapped her knuckles with his stick, sharply.

"Ow!" she cried, jerking her hand away.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going easy on you," he continued with a smile.

She looked up at him, rising to the challenge in his eyes, and mustered up a defiant smile.

"Fair enough."

How do you like it?  Is it really confusing?  Do you have no idea who these people are?  I think it'll get clearer as things go on (like after Book I is over, which will be a handful more chapters) but if it's really bewildering let me know and I'll put in an explanation of some kind.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who suggested time periods!  (I forgot to do this before.)  I wish I could use all of them, but…well, it would get old.  At least what I'm planning.  So I chose three…but all of them were awesome!  If you see inklings of _The Princess Bride_ in here…uh, that's because I put them there.  Major inspiration.  Also _The Song of the Lioness Quartet_ and all the other Tortall books by Tamora Pierce (if you haven't read them, do so IMMEDIATELY.  This is a COMMAND).

**Rachael West: **Well, I don't have to declare my major for a while, but I'm probably going to be an English major with a creative writing or film concentration.  So yes, I am going for writing.  Oh, and I read "Love Song For No One" and _loved_ it.

**DropsofJupiter:**I will keep you guys updated on what's happening with real-time Arnold and Helga, I promise…in fact, my whole grand master scheme will come out eventually, and all will be clear…but not yet!  And I love Shel Silverstein…I cried buckets when he died, and I have all his poetry.

**HazelIris:** I've been through _Mists_ several times, and I plan on reading it again…there's more to it every time you read, I find.  And I've always loved King Arthur stories…it's an amazing book.

Everyone else, thanks so much for reviewing!  I'll try to have the next chapter up soon (that's where it gets dramatic, so I'm excited to write).

Oh, and…I really regret I have to do this, but…well, I read most of the stories that get posted on this section, or at least parts of them, and I have noticed one…or two…that very, very closely resemble some of the things I've written.  I don't want to be a bitch about this, but I just want to say that I notice when something hits a little too close to home, and I don't appreciate it.  Maybe what I've seen was not intentional, and I don't want to accuse anyone, or insinuate anything, but…I've had writing stolen from me in the past, and it did not work out well for me (I mean, like, therapy sessions and the loss of a long friendship, you have no idea.  It was a very, _very_ bad situation.) so I'm just saying, at the outset…plagiarism is bad.  Sorry I had to subject you guys to that, but I felt I had to do it.

Anyway, on a lighter note, if anyone's looking for a good action series with a Helga-like character, try the _Fearless_ series by…um…I forget the author.  Francine Pascal, I think, although I could be wrong.  Anyway, I was just rereading a couple of the books (I'm a big rereader…I used to follow the series, then I stopped) the main character, Gaia, is, basically, Helga at 17…well, minus Arnold, which may be the best part of Helga.  Still, it's a good series.  Just a recommendation.

So, to conclude unoriginally (because I _must_ conclude—this Author's Note is longer than the story), R + R, gang!  J


	9. The Hostler and the Liar Part Ways

9. The Hostler and the Liar Part Ways

"What's good-bye?"

-_Hook_

"Ow!"

Helena jerked her hand away from the needle, staring at her thumb as a drop of blood welled up at the tip.  "Stupid needlepoint…" she muttered, before jamming her thumb into her mouth and sucking on it.  She glared back at the sampler she was working on for her dowry.

Ha!  A dowry.  She had to laugh.  Who in their right mind would marry _her?_  Perhaps people whispered about her sudden "blossoming" and "loveliness" when she passed them, as if she didn't have ears.  Perhaps almost all of the young men around the castle had tried to tumble her more than once.  Perhaps even she had noticed that there was now a figure on the girl in the looking glass, and heaps and heaps of lovely golden hair, and a softer, fairer face.

Still, no one would marry her once they met her.

She'd take care of that.

Her father had big, fancy ideas about marrying well, into a noble or rich house.  She had big, fancy ideas about marrying…well, not for love, because she didn't believe in love…but for something rather more palatable than an ugly, fat old moneybags with a stinky old title.  Like someone handsome, intelligent, and kind, with a pleasant laugh and all of his teeth.  Someone she could live with without throwing herself out of a window.

However, all of the suitors her father had brought around for her had absolutely none of the qualities she was looking for.  She sighed angrily.  All she wanted was a smart, funny, handsome, brave, interesting, devoted, and honest man!  Was that so much to ask?

Maybe it was.  Maybe men like that didn't exist.  She thought idly of Art and wished she hadn't.  He'd grown from a halfway-handsome boy to an impossibly handsome man, broad of shoulder and long of leg, with shaggy hair the exact color of the late afternoon sun.  He teased her less, now, and avoided her, not speaking to her unless she spoke to him.  And she spoke to him as little as possible.

Their fencing lessons had ended three years ago.  At fourteen, Helena was simply not able to slip away the way she once had.  Her sister had often sent for her at Campton, and Helena was subjected to "lady lessons"—learning how to sit, how to stand, how to walk, how to eat, how to drink, how to speak, how to breathe…everything in the world, and then some.  Perhaps her sister's influence had assisted in her change, for Helena was completely removed from the horrific child she had once been—on the outside.  On the inside…well, she was still Helena.

The thundering of hooves outside roused her from her thoughts.  She looked out the window to see a small group of horsemen approaching, several of them knights.  Leaving her needlepoint to collect dust on the flagstones, she flew down the stairs and out the door.

Her father was already there, speaking with the foremost knight, who had dismounted.  She was close enough to hear their conversation.

"It's war, then?" her father asked, his voice terse.

"Caenor's been encroaching on the border for months," the knight replied.  "He's gone too far this time."

Her father stood up straight.  "I am ready to serve," he announced boldly.  The knight nodded.

"Thank you, Sir Robert."  Helga gaped—she'd almost forgotten her father was a knight!  She wondered if he would be killed in the war.  Oh, well.  Either way it probably wouldn't affect her life very much.  The war itself probably wouldn't affect her life—she lived nowhere near the front.  She smiled to herself.  She wasn't as paranoid as Art—

Art.

Helena's blood ran cold in her veins.

In a dream, she heard the knight continue speaking to her father.  "Do you have any servants, any serfs of fighting age?"

"Quite a few," her father replied.  "I have a stable boy here, an exceptional lad…"

"Fetch them," the knight ordered one of his company.  The knight dismounted and headed for the serfs' village.

Helena didn't wait to hear any more.  She fled around the castle, her skirt held tightly in her hands, her useless little slippers pitter-pattering in the soft earth.  The knight's words reached her ears…

"…lovely daughter you have there…"

Then he was drowned out by the thunderous roar of Helena's heart.

She found herself at the stables before she knew it, blinking in the half-gloom.  A figure lifted a small bundle onto his shoulder and turned.  It was Art.

They stared at each other for a minute.  It was so silent Helena feared he could hear her heart pounding.  His eyes were unfairly green.

"You've heard, then," she said, trying to keep her voice light and failing miserably.  _He might die_, she thought wretchedly.  _He might die and never come back.  And why do I care?_

"Yes."

"You were right."

"Yes."

Why wouldn't he say anything else?  The idiot.  She pulled herself together.

"Well…good luck."

"Thanks."

His brusqueness was irritating her.  "Well, be off with you, then!"

"Fine."  He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers.  She trembled, and felt angrier for trembling.  She whirled and shouted after him.

"I just hope you know they won't make a general out of some poor, stupid stable hand!" she informed him.

He stopped, still facing away.  Then he turned and came at her with such speed and intensity she thought he might strike her.  His bag dropped to the floor, his hands came up to her face, and suddenly…suddenly…

He was kissing her.

Helena froze, unsure of what to do.  Should she push him away?  Should she kick him?  Should she just kill him where he stood?

Or should she kiss him back?

Before she could make up her mind he had pulled away, was taking slow steps backwards.  Her cheeks were burning where he'd grabbed them; her lips were numb.  He stared at her, but her brain had stopped working when he'd first touched her.

In one fluid, catlike movement, Art picked up his bag and ran out of the stable.

Helena didn't know how long she stood there, with the smell of the horses and the hay and Art's clean, fresh scent in her nostrils.  She knew the horn from the company outside blew; she knew that the sound of retreating hooves and footsteps echoed around her.  She knew that she thought, for most of that long, eternal moment, that she might possibly be dead.

And when the first tear touched her cheek, and she felt its wetness, and she realized that she was, after all—unfortunately—not dead, there was only one sensible thing to do.

Helena went up to her room, locked the door, and cried for three days.

You are too good to me, honestly.  Thanks to everyone for the reviews!  And I'm glad to hear that it's not confusing…although it might be soon (just keep an eye on the chapter titles to figure out where we are).  I'm not trying to dumb it down, but before everyone was like "What the heck is going on?" and after I posted that you were all like, "No, we understand perfectly, PI!"  I think it's a conspiracy to make me loose my mind completely.  (Too late!)  Annnnyway…

Rachael West: Good luck with the screenplay—I'm sure it'll be as awesome as the rest of your writing.  Thanks for the reminder!  I had my mommy tape it 'cuz I don't get cable…and the tape ran out right before the raunchy, hastily-aborted Miles/Stella sex scene (which was, when you think about it, just gross…I mean, Miles' _dad_ is reading it to his _son_…).  Boo-hoo…oh, well, I'll get the rest at Thanksgiving.  Don't tell me spoilers!

Athena Lionfire, DropsofJupiter: Wait and see…you're both kind of on the right tracks…sort of.  Kind of.  There's something there.  Yeah.

Snow Lane: Thanks!  I fixed it on my computer…if I ever stop being a lazy bum I'll fix it on ff.net.  So you know it'll never get fixed.

Everyone else, thanks for reviewing!  I bring you a bonanza…TWO chapters at once!  Plus more Queen's Treasure (gasp!) and more of my new story, Home For Christmas (which is just oodles of fun…shameless plug).  Catch you on the flip side!

-PI


	10. Dream Interlude: Losing Innocence

10. Dream Interlude (Losing Innocence)

"Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death…Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it."

-Song of Solomon 8:6, 8:7

The hospital.

"Bring them into the emergency room, now!"

"Find their blood types!"

"We need a specialist!"

"The Lloyds are here!"

"Cut their clothing away!"

"Where are we going to graft the skin from?  They're burnt all over!"

"This kid's fine!"

"I need a respirator!"

The Lloyds were the first to arrive, having flown in their private helicopter.  Then the Gamelthorpes, the Johansens, the Petersons, the Hyerdahls, the Behrmans.  All wept tears of joy at seeing their babies with nothing but a few bruises.

In one section of the waiting room, however, a very old couple sat, holding hands so tightly the knuckles turned white.  Arnold's grandparents sat silently, not saying a word, while the boarders created their usual havoc around them.  After losing Arnold's parents, could they loose Arnold, too?

Miriam Pataki was sober.  Not a happy state for her.  She was trying very hard not to weep, occasionally reaching for a tissue, then tearing it into miniscule pieces.  Big Bob Pataki paced the waiting room like a caged lion, cursing and praising doctors by turn.  When he wasn't speaking, his lips were a thin white lip across his otherwise stoic face.

No one would tell them anything.  No one knew what was going on.  No one knew anything—except that Helga and Arnold were going to make it.  Helga and Arnold _had_ to make it.  Helga was too strong to fall, and Arnold was too good to be taken away.

Except that nothing is too strong or too good for death.

And a group of very frightened, very young children were learning that for the first time.

Little Arnold/Helga interval there, just to catch you up on what's going on with them…BTW, I heartily recommend _everything_ I've quoted at the beginning of each chapter…lots of fun.  Hopefully the next chapter—where the plot finally rears its ugly head—will be out soon, but considering I have a twenty-page paper on the back burner…who knows.  Bye!

-PI


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